Sce. No, no, hang danger:  Take me provoking broth, and then goe to her:  Goe to your Love, and let her feel your valour; Charge her whole body, when the sword’s in your throat (Sir,) You may cry, Caesar, and see if that will help ye.

Caesar.  I’le be my self again, and meet their furies, Meet, and consume their mischiefs:  make some shift, Sceva, To recover the Fleet, and bring me up two Legions, And you shall see me, how I’le break like thunder Amongst these beds of slimy Eeles, and scatter ’em.

  Sce. Now ye speak sense I’le put my life to the hazard,
  Before I goe No more of this warm Lady,
  She will spoil your sword-hand.

  Caesar.  Goe:  come, let’s to Counsel
  How to prevent, and then to execute.

SCENA III.

    Enter Souldiers.

  1 Sold. Did ye see this Penitence?

  2 Sold. Yes:  I saw, and heard it.

  3 Sold. And I too:  look’d upon him, and observ’d it,
  He’s the strangest Septimus now—­

  1 Sold. I heard he was altered,
  And had given away his Gold to honest uses: 
  Cry’d monstrously.

  2 Sold. He cryes abundantly: 
  He is blind almost with weeping.

3 Sold. ’Tis most wonderfull That a hard hearted man, and an old Souldier Should have so much kind moisture:  when his Mother dy’d He laugh’d aloud, and made the wickedst Ballads—­

1 Sold. ’Tis like enough:  he never lov’d his parents; Nor can I blame him, for they ne’r lov’d him.  His Mother dream’d before she was deliver’d That she was brought abed with a Buzzard, and ever after She whistl’d him up to th’ world:  his brave clothes too He has flung away, and goes like one of us now:  Walks with his hands in’s pockets, poor and sorrowfull, And gives the best instructions.—­

2 Sold. And tells stories Of honest and good people that were honour’d And how they were remembred:  and runs mad If he but hear of any ungratefull person, A bloudy, or betraying man—­

3 Sold. If it be possible That an Arch-Villain may ever be recovered, This penitent Rascal will put hard:  ’twere worth our labour To see him once again.

    Enter Septimius.

  1 Sold. He spares us that labour,
  For here he comes.

  Sep.—­Bless ye my honest friends,
  Bless ye from base unworthy men; come not near me,
  For I am yet too taking for your company.

  1 Sold. Did I not tell ye?

  2 Sold. What book’s that?

  1 Sold. No doubt
  Some excellent Salve for a sore heart:  are you
  Septimius, that base knave, that betray’d Pompey?